The Wrong Guns

Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

As the crowd hung on every name called, Alsepth took advantage of the opportunity to leave unnoticed from the campus. Not an unbelievable thing. He's seen at the school all the time. . .

"Now . . . To see Clay one last time," Alsepth pipes in on his mind. He gets to the restaurant, the whole ride going by in silence. Kimberly wasn't there to make small talk with. Little things like small talk have become foreign for The King. He hasn't been himself for a few years, but as of lately he's been more withdrawn than usual from actual human interaction.

Alsepth gets a table in a private room separated from the regular floors.

When Clay walks into the Crown he gets a table and leaves, his two bodyguards, to order some food for themselves...

He stepped upstairs, on the opposite side of a two-way mirror a separated section overlooking the entire restaurant. Behind the two-way mirror visible over the bar. Just behind the bar curtains conceal a stage platform. And above those curtains - three stories high - Alsepth awaits.

"They're coming after you, Clay." Alsepth tore the tension clawing away at their tongues. He knew Clay went out of his way being here.

"What do you mean?" Clay asked. A little weary about the closed doors.

"I found out while in New York, from a source I'm not about to reveal- I'm sorry to tell you this. . . but, they've been waiting for the right time to come after you, Clay." their plates steaming steak and mashed potatoes.

"So I should just leave the country." said, Clay. He wasn't dumb. . . He knew eventually his reign would be publicly viewed as a crime.

"And what? Leave it all behind? It's too late for that. . ." Alsepth countered. Finally digging a fork to hold still the meat he's slicing.

Clay couldn't remember the last time bad news worried him.

"Let's fight back," Alsepth dropped everything before he could even lift up his fork to take his first bite.

Staring at his best friend from college, He could see the world's been generous to him. And the skinny nerdy white boy who Alsepth once knew was layers beneath the Clay who sits in front of him today. They were business partners and Clay's been wise to listen to Alsepth back in college when they used to politic and party.

The words hit Clay like an incoming train.

"Fight?" he echoes to himself. Alsepth kept selling it to him,

"Yes. . . They're coming after everyone they can slap handcuffs on. But what they want, to do, is put your face, on the front-covers of the whole thing. . . Hold a meeting. Have your guys ready for all-out war against police. . ." Alsepth suggested with authority. Like it was the best advice he'd ever given anyone in his forty-eight years of life.

"They got everything to lose, Alsepth" Clay protested. He didn't know what to say. Let alone; expect, coming out of this arranged meeting with such privacy. Now he knew why, Alsepth was so demanding that he'd be here.

"These cops don't give a shit, Clay. After they've lost a couple battles against an onslaught from your men, they're going to fall back. . . It's not their job to fight a war." He pointed out.

"And do you think we stand a chance?" Clay fired back, doubtful.

"I'm not about to let these fucks ruin a lifetime's work over their compensation!" Alsepth banged a finger on the table and from outside the faint voices would have sounded like a heated argument.